The Wolves Of Russia
by DarkHorseAsh
Summary: Fourteen years ago, a rogue group in Russia smuggled infants out of homes and orphanages. The children were raised to kill. Twelve years later, those same children broke out of the prison they had been raised in and went on the run. Now, the teens are forced to leave their country and travel to the United States to try to start again. What they didn't count on? Not being the only a


Raven didn't think he had ever hated his home country as much as he did that day. It was around twenty degrees fahrenheit that day, and he was wearing only a tunic-like shirt with a thin leather jacket, too-large pants, and combat boots, he was absolutely freezing. "Damn it, Damn it, Damn it I didn't remember I could _be_ this cold." He mutters to himself in Russian, rubbing his curved fingers together, the claws clicking against each other. A moment later he is rubbing his fur-covered muzzle with his left hand, knife balanced in his right hand that he had slid down from his sleeve. That patrol needed to hurry the hell up and end, in his opinion. He finally finished limping all the way around the warehouse in the middle of nowhere, checking to make sure an enemy that was probably still days away wasn't there. When he makes it back inside the tiny building safely is the only time he can relax slightly. Several glowing pairs of eyes are staring at him from the back corner. Raven limps back to where they are, all crouched around a pitiful fire that someone had started a few hours before. "Nothing out there. Who's on patrol in half an hour?" The tallest of their bunch, his blond fur so dirty it looked nothing like its normal color, and his hair was pulled back into a ponytail and fiercely determined blue eyes, groans dramatically as he raises his hand. The rest of them smile slightly. "Alright, Lion. Just a warning it's about twenty degrees out there so you're going to be damn close to frozen. Wolf, I assume you're on distance support?" he nods, so Raven turns his attention to working off his sopping wet boots and curling up next to the fire.

It's dawn when he is awoken by someone shaking him. He's on his feet in less than ten seconds, the blades strapped to the insides of his wrists extended. Wolf just dramatically rolls his eyes at him. "Relax, little brother, it's just me." Raven snorts slightly at the comment although he still is smiling. "We don't know our ages, Wolf. I'm the same height as you are. Are the guys already up?" Wolf nods, scanning the small shack-like warehouse where they were currently sheltering. Two figures were on blankets off to one side, Lion was chatting with Fox (a small, red-furred figure whose hair was braided tightly down their back and who had the most piercing green eyes imaginable). A smaller figure with short, choppy brown hair was hunched off to one side, brown fur on his neck standing straight up, next to another of their bunch, a dark-furred young man with brown eyes and two legs that turned into metal just below his knees. His pants were rolled up so his legs were visible, which was a surprise because he typically kept the legs hidden. A sharp bark from Raven drew all of their attention to him, and they crowd around the map that is tacked up on the wall. "So, we are here." Raven points out a spot on the map, effectively the middle of nowhere. "The airport we are trying to get to is over here, around five miles in that direction." He points, and then moves to one side so that Lion can explain his plan. Lion is smart, and their navigator, so this definitely is within his job description. Raven goes to kneel between the two figures on the other side of the room, carefully checking their wounds. Their names were Eagle and Falcon. Two days before, when the helicopter they had been on had been shot down, the two oldest of their bunch (they were both nineteen) had been critically injured. They had managed to get them to this shack, where Wolf and Raven had operated and managed to save them both. Eagle had two broken ribs, one of which had punctured his lung, and splenic bleeding. Raven had lost him twice on the "table," which wasn't a real table because they were in a shack. But, either way, he was still here and breathing. His chest and abdomen were bandaged tightly, and he was barely breathing even two days later but he was alive. Falcon had shattered his right leg, which was currently in a full cast. Wolf had spent fifteen hours saving the leg, and there were still no guarantees but they had hope. Or at least, the assassin version of hope. Raven wasn't sure what that was. "Oy, guys, what's the teenage assassin version of hope?" "Lots and lots of weapons." "A week where we don't kill anyone." "A lot of food, and an actual place to sleep with beds and a floor." Raven rolls his eyes at them as he silently gathers up his belongings. Two knives strapped to his wrists, so if he bends his hands back they shoot out and hit whoever is in front of him. A field knife hanging on his belt, a gun on the other side. A crossbow and quiver on his back. That's his normal ensemble, but today, he has to finish checking injuries first. He restraps his own injured knee, bandages Mouse's stitched back, wraps Lion's sprained ankle. Rudy, the boy Mouse had been with earlier, was ok except for some bruises, same for Fox. Raven is as relieved as someone who doesn't expect to survive the week can be, as he slips the holstered knives onto his wrists and the knife onto his other hip. He feels a little more like himself, after that.

They set off around seven in the morning, quickly hurrying to be under the treeline because open air was what got people killed. They learned that lesson at eight, knowing they would be shot if they didn't and not willing to be hit no matter how much they wanted out they wanted life, too. Raven loses himself in memories as he struggles along, helping carry the home-made stretched that Eagle is on. Fox has the other end; Lion and Wolf have Falcon's. He thinks back to the first time he was stranded in the cold. It was just him and Fox. They were seven. They climbed a tree, curled up together, and kept watch intently until the snow stopped long enough that they could make it back. They were three hours late. They got fourteen bruises and three sprains, and two fractured ribs, between them. They were never late again. Raven was twelve years old and listening to the chaos outside. He was hopeful, so unbelievably hopeful, for the first time in his short life. His fingers close onto Wolf's wrist, gives him a look they both know how to read. _Now. This is our chance. Get the others._ Raven is twelve and sneaking through the vent system. Raven is twelve and shooting the people who had kidnapped them as infants when the men chased them with his crossbow balanced in his hands and an arrow to their hearts. It lets the others get ahead. He almost doesn't follow them, but he does.

They make it three miles that day and even though none of them want to stop for the night, they decide that they need to because they don't well have another option Rudy and Mouse are both fading fast, Rudy falling over his own metal legs a dozen times in the last minute, the way he does when he can barely keep his eyes open. There isn't a warehouse tonight, just a cave dug into the snow to shelter the most injured as the rest sleep curled together and Raven _remembers._ A night, all of them smaller and thinner with less scars and more meat on their bones sleeping in the opening of a cave because the inside was full of bats and they could kill someone without blinking but they couldn't chase out bats. He looks around him, realizing they all remember the same day when they curl up there, fur bristling from the cold. It at least adds an extra layer of warmth. Raven straps a knife to his thigh and sleeps with his field knife under his jacket, which was bunched up into something resembling a pillow. He doesn't think he remembers how to feel safe without a weapon. He doesn't know if he knows how to feel safe at all. He hopes he hasn't forgotten.

The next day they are on a plane. Not legally, naturally, because eight worgens covered in dirt and blood and scars and pain would never make it on legally. Wolf wonders if eight worgens could ever make it in the first place. He's pretty sure that they couldn't have, even though he silently hopes that maybe, maybe they could. They sneak in through the back, knock the guard out, and hide in a box. Eagle's breathing is improving, Falcon is awake and talking even though his jaw is tight with pain and all his fur rustles when he shakes. He insists he is fine. None of them believe him, but none of them call him out on it, either. "Hey, Fal." Raven murmurs, sitting down and letting Falcon rest his head on his lap, tracing his fingers over his brother's scars, visible through his worn t-shirt. Falcon relaxes sligtly under the smaller boy's hands, the pain lines etched in his face loosening slowly until he slips into a fitful sleep. Raven relaxes slightly, going to curl up next to the rest of his men. Wolf drapes an arm over him, pulling the smaller figure to rest against him snugly. Raven mutters something sounding vaguely thankful, before burrowing against his brother, muzzle tucked under his chin as they both slipped into restless sleep. Mouse smiles at them from across the crate; he is already curled up near Rudy. All six "healthy" figures are around Eagle and Falcon, who are in the middle. Lion is stretched out on the third side, Fox on the fourth. And, for a moment at least, they all look at peace.

Naturally, the peace doesn't last. They wait till the crate is unloaded to get out and run, only realizing that this was going to be harder than predicted when they find that they hadn't landed in some little town somewhere, like they had been hoping they had. A city loomed around them, leaving the teens looking around in shock as they duck into the nearest alley, leaning against the wall as the four set down the stretchers. Raven is visibly shaken as he studies the area around them. "This could be bad, guys. They sent us to New York."


End file.
